


𝙱𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛

by stopthat



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Declarations Of Love, Family Feels, First Kiss, First Love, First everything else, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Post-Season/Series 04, Romantic Friendship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-01-27 11:13:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21391213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stopthat/pseuds/stopthat
Summary: Note: incomplete for now, but concludes in a satisfying way.  Certainly readable as is with no cliffhanger to speak of.  <3Several years after the events of series four, Sherlock and John begin to realize that they may have both wanted the same thing for all these years, after all.This is the story of their evolving relationship, told from Sherlock's ever-confused and conflicted point of view.▾John looks over at me now, and when our eyes meet I’m positive that he’s been thinking the same things.  Thinking of our unconventional friendship, of our potential for something more.  He’d remained still and quiet this morning while I held on to him, buried my face in the fabric of his shirt.  He must have been beyond surprised to find me like that.  He could have shaken me off, woken me up.  But he didn’t.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 60
Kudos: 163





	1. One

As I pace around the small, white-walled hotel room that John and I have been holed up in for the past two nights, I set aside my obsessive pondering of our current, seemingly inscrutable case, and let my mind drift. We do this often these days, share a room. I rarely sleep on cases—and we’ve grown so comfortable in one another’s presence over the past few years that we haven’t much need for space. It’s a comfort for me to keep him close while I’m consumed by the work. A comfort and an advantage—I think more clearly when he’s near. I told him once, years ago, that he was a conductor of light. A ridiculous turn of phrase, fuelled by my then untamed ego. Still, it’s remained true, despite everything we’ve gone through together. He remains the most extraordinary man I’ve ever known, hiding behind a façade of mediocrity.

Now I watch him sleep, alone on the big bed in our bland room. Peaceful and content, blissfully unaware of our current reality. A brief hiatus from the confounding clutter we’ve found ourselves in the midst of. I’ve been awake for nearly seventy-two hours now. Can hardly force my mind to focus on the data at hand anymore. Rarely do I push myself this hard—rarely does it take us so long to find a solution—but this particular mystery has me at a loss. And while I am loath to admit it, I’m more aware of the tedious maintenance that my aging body requires of me these days. I’ve reached my forties now, and three days without sleep hits me considerably harder than it did before.

With a sigh, I lie down on the edge of the bed, opposite John, pulling the duvet up over my head. He won’t mind. He’s aware that I catch an hour or two of rest every now and then when my mind skitters to a halt. I’ll likely rise before him anyway. Listening to his steady breathing on the other side of the bed, my eyelids grow heavy, and I let myself drift into sleep.

✦

The first thing I’m aware of upon waking is a solid, warm presence in front of me. Eyes still firmly closed, I immediately recognize John’s scent and wonder at the sensation of soft cotton against my cheek. I can feel his chest rising and falling beneath, can feel his skin under the pads of my fingers. Oh, God. My hand rests against his back, beneath the shirt he fell asleep in. Arm wrapped tightly around his waist. All of this has become distressingly clear in the span of a second, and as my mind comes back online, I jerk back, pull away—eyes flying open and locking directly onto his piercing blue orbs.

He watches me, face carefully blank, as I desperately attempt to formulate an apology, an explanation. But none come. What was that? What am I doing? This has never happened before—not with John, nor with anyone else. He’s well aware that I’ve never been close to anyone, physically or otherwise. He’s asked me about it—said that as my best friend, he ought to know. So I’d told him: never have, never even wanted to try.

“When did you become so cuddly?” he asks, grinning slightly at my clear discomfort. Not upset, then. “That was about the last thing I expected to wake up to.”

I groan, rolling onto my back and feeling like a proper idiot. “I’m sorry,” I say to the ceiling. Found the apology. If only I had an explanation.

“I’ve been awake for nearly an hour—woke up the second you rolled over and slipped your hand up my shirt,” I cringe, glance over at him. He’s still grinning. “It’s fine, Sherlock. It was quite nice seeing you like that,” What is that supposed to mean? I narrow my eyes. He just laughs, climbs out of bed and heads for the loo.

✦

We solve the case at last (it was the babysitter’s boyfriend—hadn’t even known that he existed until four hours ago—there’s always something) and jump on a train back to London. It’s late afternoon, and with the case now behind us, my mind turns back to the man seated at my right. He’s looking intently out the window, silver hair reflecting the sunlight that shines through the glass. I suppose that if I were anyone else, it wouldn’t have been odd at all to wake up wrapped around my best friend. If I were anyone else, perhaps it would have happened much sooner. Looking at him now, I feel a palpable rush of emotion—I always do. I love him, he knows that. We’ve acknowledged the strength of our bond, in our own roundabout way.

Nevertheless, there’s a wall between us. I suspect its foundation is built on sexual confusion and an unwillingness to risk what we currently have. John doesn’t know if he could be sexually involved with a man, and I don’t know if I’m able to be interested in anyone in that way. I have thought about it. In an abstract sense, I’ve considered it. I can only imagine awkwardness and eventual rejection. Or a painful realization on my part that this sort of thing just isn’t for me. To me, it isn’t worth the risk. But I had failed to consider that we could still have some sort of physical contact. We’ve always carefully avoided it—but for a few stilted embraces—knowing full well that there’s something lurking beneath the surface between us and not wanting to stir it up. But now, thanks to my unconscious clinginess, it’s been undeniably stirred.

John looks over at me now, and when our eyes meet I’m positive that he’s been thinking the same things. Thinking of our unconventional friendship, of our potential for something more. He’d remained still and quiet this morning while I held on to him, buried my face in the fabric of his shirt. He must have been beyond surprised to find me like that. He could have shaken me off, woken me up. But he didn’t. 

“You know I didn’t mind, right?” He asks quietly, eyes studying my face, recognizing our shared thoughts. “I meant it when I said it was nice.” My heart leaps a bit. We’re going to talk about this, then? What is there to say, really? It isn’t as if it were some monumental occurrence. Although, he likely thinks that for me, it was. Likely thinks that I’m shaken by my own actions. I am, I suppose. A bit. But nothing has changed, really. It isn’t as if my sudden display of affection has opened up a door for us to be close like that more often, to share a bed—although the thought has a certain appeal. It can’t happen. John hasn’t lived at 221B in seven years, and I’ve long since given up suggesting that he and Rosie move back. He’d moved out shortly after I jumped to my death, and when I’d returned two years later, Mary had already firmly sunk her talons into his heart. After her death, he sold the house in the suburbs and he and Rosie have lived in a modest flat a few miles from Baker Street ever since.

Still, we see each other nearly every day. John left the clinic last spring to work with me full time. Finally. Mrs. Hudson watches Rosie constantly—always willing to be on call, swooping in whenever we need to run off at a moment’s notice. And I love Rosie as if she were my own. So the two of them spend quite a lot of time at 221B, these days. 

For awhile, though, we didn’t see each other at all. I had made the mistake of letting Mary and her absurd post-death video messages send me straight to Hell in a misguided attempt to manipulate John into helping me back out. I’d gone back to drugs and chaos, and he’d reverted to violence and rage in his frustration. It was not a good time for us. He still carries a lot of guilt over it. And I still have quite a bit of regret about how I handled things, then.

We found our way back to one another after a few months apart. I spent that time in a persistent black mood, still using and completely adrift—forced to admit that I was lost without him, but confused by the rage he’d directed at me. Eventually we talked through a lot of our demons, resolved many of our lingering issues. Forgave, forgot. Cleared the air. And when things became difficult again, we were ready to be there for one another. Everything Eurus put us through ended up bringing us closer, in the end. It was more clear to me than ever that John is my family, that I need him in my life. He had evidently had a similar revelation, because we’d found some sort of unspoken understanding after that. And when Eurus took her own life six months later, he was there for me, too.

“All right?” John asks, voice quiet and slightly concerned. He’s watching me as my mind reels. This happens often—spinning out, getting lost in thoughts of the past and dissociating from reality. I haven’t been quite the same since my two years as a ghost. Never quite dealt with the mental repercussions of my time abroad. But John is patient with me, these days. Things have gotten better.

“Does it change anything for you?” I ask. I want to know. I want to know if he wants things to change—if such a small thing is enough to shift our relationship into uncharted territory.

He sighs. “It doesn’t have to. It isn’t a big deal, really. But it was nice,” His eyes are questioning. Wants to know if it was nice for me too, waking up beside him. It was mostly embarrassing, if I’m being honest. And a bit shocking, considering my usual disdain for human contact. But it isn’t only in sleep that I want to be close to him. There have been many, many moments where I felt compelled to reach out. I always stop myself.

  
I stare at him for a long moment, another thing we find ourselves doing often, these days. Watching each other, silently communicating with our eyes alone. We can read one another clearly—though it doesn’t make this any easier. I lightly rest my fingers on his forearm, where it lies on the armrest between us. _ I’m open to this. _ Is what I want him to know. _ I’m open to trying for something more. _


	2. Two

John has gone on exactly three dates since Mary’s death. He hasn’t told me about them, but he knows that I could see the signs each time. Each halfhearted endeavor to find someone new has failed, with zero interference from me. It’s been over a year now, since his last attempt at dating. Perhaps he’s given up. I haven’t asked. He’s an excellent father to Rosie—she seems to be his main focus, these days. Rosie and the work are what he has now.

We’re in a cab on our way to pick her up at Molly and Lestrade’s flat, where she’s been staying while we were in Wales for the case. The two of them found each other just over two years ago, while both of them were at a low point in life—isolated and apathetic. They sought comfort in their friendship, and it quickly evolved into something more. They’re good together. And they’re both happier and more settled than I’ve ever seen them.

I wish that things were so simple for John and myself. We’ve never known how to define what we are to one another, and while we connect deeply on one level, we seem to clash spectacularly on another. It’s been a source of misdirected anger for John, and self-hatred for me. I will readily admit that he’s everything to me. I just don’t know what that means for us, or if the feeling is mutual. But I know that he cares.

After my sister’s suicide, John stayed with me for three weeks. His presence prevented me from being consumed by guilt and taking drastic measures to forget how I’d failed her. He still left each day for the clinic, but knowing that he’d be returning each afternoon—often with Rosie in tow—kept me from turning back to needles and getting lost in regret. I had nearly begged him to move back permanently. Made a case for the convenience of living at 221B, made it clear that I was happy to help care for Rosie, that I wanted them both there. But he’d told me again and again that it was too soon, that it wasn’t a good idea. It was difficult to hear. He never gave me a specific reason, but I assume that it’s because despite our previous conversations and newfound forgiveness, we had a lot of unspoken obstacles between us, then. We still do, I suppose, but our ability to communicate has improved drastically. I’m less afraid of pushing him away by being too arduous, too forthright. I know now that he’s not going anywhere. 

We ask the cabbie to wait as we walk together up the path to collect Rosie. Molly answers the door, beaming and waving us in. Rosie sits at the kitchen table, blonde waves wild and completely covered in glitter—surrounded by a rainbow of pom poms and pipe cleaners.

“Got a bit carried away,” Molly laughs, picking up some sort of furry creature clearly made by Rosie and handing it to me. “She’s very creative, you know,” This is directed at John, who grins.

“Clearly,” He looks at me where I stand carefully holding the colorful creation of a five year old, and laughs. “That’s a good look for you, Sherlock, you should keep that.” I hold it up to Rosie, raising my eyebrows in a silent question. She nods, giggling as I place it in my pocket, leaving its head poking out the top. John scoops her up out of her chair. “Have fun with Molly and Greg?” He asks. Another nod. She’s used to spending time with them—with Mrs. Hudson, as well. She’s never known a life where her father didn’t disappear at random for days at a time. “Greg’s at work, then?”

“Mm,” Molly replies, rolling her eyes. “He’s been at the Yard all weekend, obsessing over whatever case he’s got on. Has hardly slept.”

“I know what that’s like,” John says, nodding toward me. “Think you’ve caught about two hours of sleep in the last three days?” My turn to roll my eyes. We were on a _ case. _ Molly smirks. “Anyway, Molly, we should be off. Thank you so much. Really.”

“Always love having her here, you know that. Any time.” We say our goodbyes and head back out to the idling cab.

“Dinner?” John asks as we pull away from the kerb. Solid food does sound quite appealing—I’ve been subsisting on coffee for days now.

“All right,” I smile. 

We pick up Thai and head to 221B. We almost never spend time at John’s flat. It’s a nice place, and it’s been their home for years—but it never feels quite right. Tonight we forgo the kitchen—John and I sit side by side on the couch, boxes of food spread out on the coffee table. Rosie has gone straight for her stash of colouring books—I’ve kept a constant supply of them for her here—and sits crosslegged on the floor, eating noodles with one hand and colouring in a picture of a clown holding an umbrella with the other. John watches her.

“Seen Mycroft lately?” He asks, turning to me with a smirk. I grin. The image had me thinking of my brother as well.

“No, actually. Mummy mentioned that he’s been in Germany when she called last week,” I take a moment to feel sorry for the population of Berlin. “God only knows what he’s up to.” He’s actually been considerably more tolerable in the last few years—since the events our sister thrust upon us and her subsequent death. It had clearly affected him as much as it had me, but he had no one to help him keep his head above water, as John had done for me. I saw him occasionally during that time, but we didn’t speak much of Eurus. We’re kinder to each other these days, but still haven’t found a way to set aside our decades of disdain entirely.

Once we’ve finished eating, things begin to feel a bit strange between John and I. We’ve been distracted by Rosie for the past couple of hours, but now she’s fallen asleep, tucked up against John’s side. We sit in silence, sipping tea, occasionally glancing at one another. Today has been odd. I believe that we actually went ahead and decided to venture into the unknown together, but our vague conversation on the train didn’t give me much to go on. I’m in uncharted waters here, and it is _ awkward. _

“Sherlock—” John begins, immediately cutting himself off. He turns toward me, dislodging Rosie slightly. She stirs. Doesn’t wake up. “I—” He sighs. “I just want you to know that I have no expectations about anything at all. Nothing has to change if you don’t want it to.” Do I want it to? I don’t know entirely what I want. I know that I want him in some capacity—we already consider each other family—we spend every day together. We’re closer to each other than to anyone else in our lives. Could we be a proper couple? Is that ever going to be an option for us?

“What do _ you _ want, John?”

“I don’t know. I—this is difficult,” His eyes are pleading, but I don’t know what to say either. This _ is _ difficult. Another sigh. His voice is low, measured. “I’m open to anything, I think. It’s very clear to me that we have something that I’m always going to want in my life. I—don’t know—how to proceed,” He looks down at my hand, resting on the cushion between us. Reaches out and places his fingers tentatively over mine. “Because I don’t know what you want. But I liked waking up with you this morning. I think that we could have that, if you want it,” He lightly wraps his fingers around mine, squeezes slightly. My heart leaps, stomach lurches. “I think I’ve wanted something like that for quite some time.” I look at him now, blue eyes earnest and unassuming as ever. I would do anything for him. And hearing him voice all of this aloud has me sure that I want to get closer, in whatever way we can. We could actually do this.

“I think that I have, too.”


	3. Three

John stays. We put Rosie to bed upstairs, each pressing our lips to her forehead and pulling the door closed with a soft _ click _ before quietly retreating back down the steps. The air is thick with uncertainty again, now that we’re alone—each of us afraid of making a wrong move and shattering this delicate web we’ve begun to weave around one another. John looks up at me.

“Bed?” He asks simply. I nod, feeling nervous. Ridiculous. We take turns in the loo and meet back in my bedroom, standing awkwardly by the door, looking at one another hesitantly. John smiles, shakes his head. “Come on, then,” He says. We climb under the covers, side by side. I lie stiffly on my back, heart racing. I haven’t a clue what’s expected of me in this situation. He turns toward me. “Sherlock,” His voice is soft, steady. “This doesn’t have to feel strange,” I turn my head to look at him. Doesn’t it? It _ is _ strange, for us. “Come here?” He asks quietly, lying back and stretching his arm out against the bed in invitation. I hesitate, then slide over awkwardly and tuck myself against his side. His hand immediately comes up to rest on my back, and I gradually relax into him, head pillowed on his shoulder. I wrap an arm around his waist, keeping my hands out of his shirt this time. He sighs. Content. I let myself take comfort in this, too—in his warmth, his proximity. He’s right. It feels right. “Goodnight,” He whispers into my curls, his hand brushing up and down my back. I tighten my grip on his waist, hitch an ankle over his, and melt slowly into sleep.

✦

I wake before John, the sun just beginning to rise, casting a soft orange glow over the room. We haven’t moved much in sleep—I’m still lying against his side, arm draped over his torso. My face is tucked comfortably into the crook of his neck now, and I can feel his breath against my temple. It takes me a moment to gather my bearings, to remember that this is all right, now. I turn my head, find myself face to face with him. We’ve never been this close. I’ve never been this close with anyone. It’s a bit alarming, to be allowed so completely into his personal space. He’s still sleeping soundly, and when I hear a quiet shuffling at the door, I glance over in time to see Rosie poking her head in. I smile.

“Hungry?” I ask, voice hushed. She nods. She’s a quiet child. Has moments of enthusiastic babble, but for the most part she keeps her responses brief, if not entirely silent. She’s adapted easily to whatever situation she finds herself in. She isn’t shy—is always happy to meet new people and spend time with her various caretakers—and she is absolutely head over heels for her father. They have an easy bond, and it’s been a privilege to be a part of it. She trusts me because John does, and I love her dearly in return.

I carefully extricate myself and roll out of bed, following Rosie into the kitchen. She clambers up into a chair at the table, where she already has her colouring supplies set up. So independent, just like her parents. Luckily she’s got more of John in her than Mary—sensible and loyal. I start a pot of coffee and gather the supplies to make omelets. She’ll consume anything involving eggs and cheese. I watch her carefully colouring—almost within the lines—and smile.

“Sleep all right?” I ask, breaking eggs into a bowl and pulling a whisk from a drawer.

“Yep,” She doesn’t look up from her concentrated colouring, and she doesn’t ask why John was in my bed. They stay here occasionally out of convenience, but of course he usually sleeps upstairs. She doesn’t seem to mind either way. I wouldn’t know what to say if she had questions anyway—I’ll leave all that to John.

Sliding an omelet onto a plate, I set it down in front of her and throw some bread into the toaster. Pouring myself a coffee, I lean against the worktop and sip it quietly, mind wandering. Now what?

“Morning, you two,” John yawns, stretching his arms in the air as he shuffles into the kitchen. He kisses Rosie on the top of her head, then leans against the worktop beside me, smiling broadly. Could we have this, too? Mornings together—the three of us—a proper family?

“Hi, Papa,” Rosie says, looking up briefly to beam at him. She’s managed to eat half the omelet without disrupting her persistent scribbling. I grab the toast and set the plate on the table, prepare a coffee for John.

“Thanks,” He accepts the mug and leans briefly against my side. I still haven’t said a word, I realize. Still a bit lost in thought. “All right?” He studies me for a moment, no doubt seeing the constant stream of questions written all over my face. “Want to talk?” I suppose we should. I nod toward the living room and he follows me to the couch, where we perch facing one another, coffees in hand. He watches me, waiting. I want to ask him, yet again, to move back to Baker Street—but I’m not sure I could handle another rejection. Especially not now. I want to know what’s next for us.

“How will this work?” I ask instead. Will he stay over only occasionally? Will we alternate flats? Does he want this sort of thing every night, or only when the mood strikes? Will we try to take it further, or are we simply bedmates now? Is he going to begin dating women again eventually? What am I to him, exactly? Too many unknowns. We should have discussed this before.

“That’s up to you, Sherlock,” It is? What does that mean? I feel my brow furrow in confusion. He smiles slightly, continues. “Listen—I’ve been kidding myself for quite a long time about what I feel for you. I’ve always known there was something between us, but really didn’t think this was an option at all. And now that it’s suddenly on the table—” He takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. “—at this point, I only want to be with you—it’s up to you what that means for us,” Silence falls between us. I open my mouth, close it again. That is not what I’d expected him to say. Perhaps we’re on the same page, after all—I only want to be with him, too.

“Live here, John. Come back,” This comes out low, hesitant. I’m expecting the worst.

He sighs. A long exhale. “Do you really want that? You want the two of us constantly underfoot? It worked for you and me before, Sherlock, but things are very different now. They have been for a long time.” Is this why he’d refused to come back? He was afraid he and Rosie would be some sort of burden?

“Idiot,” I scowl. If this is the reason he’d rejected my many invitations, then he really is an imbecile. If he’d only listened to my reasoning, they could have been here with me all these years. “There has never been a time when I didn’t want you here,” In fact, it’s continued to be nearly unbearable, living here without him—to watch the two of them walk out the door each night, headed for their own home. After all these years, I still miss them fiercely once they go. I grab his wrist, look at him intently, try to convey everything that I don’t have the words for yet. “Just come back, John.”

He stares back at me, eyes shining a bit—then extricates his wrist and takes the mug from my hand, sets it on the coffee table alongside his own. He abruptly leans forward and pulls me into an embrace. Wraps his arms tightly around my body, drops his forehead to my shoulder. “Okay,” He whispers. Okay.


	4. Four

It takes us the better part of three days to get them all moved in to 221B. My heart has been nearly bursting throughout the entire process. I had given up hope that a day would come when John would call Baker Street home once more. Now here we sit, the three of us, eating Chinese takeaway at _ our _ kitchen table. 

We spent this morning painting John’s old bedroom a light, bright green. Rosie claims this to be her current favourite colour. Once all of her furniture and myriad toys were securely in place, we took a trip to a greenhouse to pick out some houseplants—another demand of hers. She’d learned to care for plants at reception and has decided that the one she’s been carefully keeping alive for several months is no longer enough. The room feels warm and bright, now. Full of life. Quite literally. 

Mrs. Hudson, who had nearly fainted when we told her that John was moving back in, instructed us to donate his old bed if we didn’t want it—so we did. We’d let her know that we were creating a space for Rosie upstairs, but didn’t exactly elaborate on why one bed is suddenly enough for both adults in the flat. She didn’t ask. She’s always assumed that we were together, anyway.

Now I watch Rosie picking apart a dumpling and eating only the bits she deems worthy. I smile at her discerning nature. It will serve her well in life. Meanwhile, John is shoveling spring rolls into his mouth, looking down at his jumper as several flaky crumbs tumble onto his chest. When he glances up and sees me watching him, he grins.

“Starving,” He laughs, brushing away the crumbs. This single-word explanation conjures a memory from long ago. Our first night as flatmates—inviting him along on a case—expecting, perhaps, repulsion and shock. Expecting the disdain that I am usually confronted with when someone learns of my passion for murder and intrigue. I had wanted to be wrong. I’d seen something in him the moment he’d walked into the lab with Stamford—knew immediately that I wanted to learn as much about the man as I could possibly find out. We’d been hesitant to leave each other’s presence that night, so I’d asked him to dinner—a move so out of character for me that I’d wondered if madness was finally creeping in. But he’d agreed, without hesitation. _ Starving, _ is what he’d said.

I’m pulled from my memories when a tiny piece of dumpling hits me in the cheek. Rosie giggles, and she and John share a familiar grin. I know that look. They’d been trying to get my attention while I was far away, mind stuck deep in the past. I raise my eyebrows—really, I’m still regularly surprised that I’ve managed to find people who actually want my attention. I’d spent thirty-four years of my life feeling certain that I could never have this.

“All right?” It’s Rosie who asks, in a perfect imitation of John’s usual tone. She picks up on everything—knows that this is the question to ask when I’ve been mentally checked out for too long. I smile, toss a bit of broccoli at her, causing a fresh wave of giggles.

“All right,” I respond. “I was just thinking of the day I met your papa.” Her eyes go wide.

“Was it a good day?” A question only a five year old would ask. No inquiries about logistics, only wanting to be sure that we’d had a nice day.

“The very best,” I say, smiling as she beams up at me. “Until today.”

✦

John and Rosie have stayed at 221B the past two nights while we systematically packed, moved and unpacked all of their belongings. We made several trips to the charity shop to unload excess furniture and appliances, and now the flat is a satisfying balance of their things and my own. 

We’ve already developed a nighttime ritual, it seems—tucking Rosie in together, reading to her—and then eventually tumbling into bed, exhausted, and falling asleep in each other’s arms. I still feel a bit awkward about that part of the equation. Still not exactly confident in my ability to not make a fool of myself. But I trust that John will let me know if I’m breaching some sort of bed etiquette, and thus far, it’s all been quite pleasant.

I’m aware that nothing about us is _ normal _ or _ conventional _, but still I find myself wondering if what we have between us now is strange or unsustainable. Do people do this? Can we just exist in this undefined, sexless limbo indefinitely? Is that what I want? John said that it’s up to me to decide what we become. He’s all in, no matter the outcome. I can hardly believe that I’m the recipient of such unconditional commitment—I’ve been handed a prize that I’d never thought possible, and I don’t want to let him down.

My entire life I’ve assumed that I’m asexual. I’d never once been attracted to a human being of any gender, and the concept of sex had rarely crossed my mind in any real capacity. I had dismissed it as a frivolous waste of time at a very young age, and took no interest in it outside of its place in crime. The day that I met John, however, I was startlingly aware that I was attracted to him. Physically, and in every other conceivable way. Drawn to him inextricably from the moment he entered my frame of vision. He’d made it quite clear from the jump, though, that he was _ not gay _—and really, I didn’t want any sort of romantic entanglement anyway. As shaken as I was by the sudden awakening of my interest in another person, I was positive that I didn’t need there to be a romantic component to our relationship. And so we’d let our friendship grow, and he’d surprised me again and again with his unwavering integrity and loyal nature.

Of course, I’d destroyed it all when I jumped. The fact that I’d done it for him did not negate the fact that I’d let him believe I was dead for more than two years. That I’d allowed him to think I had thrown my life away right in front of him—never giving him a chance to stop me. I didn’t fully understand the effect my actions had on him until Eurus took her life. She hadn’t given any of us a single clue that she was planning to do so, and the news had hit me hard. I had done the same to John, and it mattered not that it was all a ruse. I wasn’t able to conceive of the guilt and complicated grief that plagues those left behind, until I was in the same position. It helped me to understand his rage upon seeing me again. Helped me to see the emotional nightmare I’d put him through. It had also added another layer to the already overflowing well of gratitude that I feel for him and his ability to forgive.

Now that we’ve somehow made it through—to a point where we’re comfortable with physical contact and have officially chosen to be together—do I want more? Am I actually interested in attempting a sexual relationship with John? Unclear. Still not convinced that it would be a good idea. While I’m certainly intrigued by the thought, I’m not sure we’d survive if the outcome were unfavourable. What if we aren’t compatible? What if John really is_ not gay _? What if I am indeed asexual? It’s too soon, I think. Too new. We’re still behaving a bit like awkward adolescents in each other’s presence, and it wouldn’t take much to throw a spanner in the works.

“Sherlock,” John pulls me from my thoughts with a hand on my knee. We’d put Rosie to bed an hour ago, and now sit in our chairs, each lost in our own heads. He’s comfortable with my long silences—is prone to his own bouts of distant pondering—although, as ever, he’s more anchored in reality than I ever have been. “I want to ask you something,” I wait for him to continue. He knows that he can ask me anything. “Are you comfortable with me calling you my partner? I think we’re a bit old for _ boyfriend _, but I’d like to label this if it’s all right with you,” Of course it’s all right. I’ve thought of John as my partner in the work for a long time. Referring to him as my partner in life, too, is very appealing. I smile.

“I like the sound of that.”

“I’d also like to tell people we’re together. What do you think?” I consider the question. I’m not one for formal announcements, but of course I want the people in our lives to know that John and I have finally gotten to this place. It’s a point of pride, for me.

“Yes, all right,” I say. Mrs. Hudson surely already knows, and the only others we speak to with regularity are Molly and Lestrade. I’m sure John is thinking of telling Harry. She’s drifted in and out of his life over the past few years. They’re on good terms, for the most part, though she’s still plagued with her demons. I’ve only been in her presence a handful of times. We get on all right, but she has been clear that she does not appreciate what I’d done to John when I jumped. She doesn’t seem to have much trust in me, so I’m a bit wary of how she’ll receive our news. Mycroft certainly already knows that John and Rosie have moved back in and drawn his own conclusions, though he hasn’t sent any snarky texts about it. And I’ll tell my parents eventually. The thought is a bit overwhelming—my mother will no doubt be over the bloody moon about it.

“Good,” He says, grinning and sitting back in his chair. “I’m knackered. Bed?” I nod, and we head off to brush our teeth. We haven’t discussed the logistics of this new territory, really. While we’re sharing a bed and calling each other _ partner, _ we’re still changing in separate rooms and taking turns in the loo. It’s all been quite innocent so far—and I’m not sure how to bring up the fact that I don’t mind in the least if we see one another in a state of undress, or let our hands roam beneath the confines of our pyjamas. It seems that John may not be completely comfortable with the idea yet, so I’ve said nothing.

John wanders out of the loo in his worn rugby t-shirt and plaid pyjama bottoms. He crawls into bed beside me, plugging his phone in to charge on the nightstand. I’m sitting against the headboard, typing out a response to a text from Lestrade about a case we’ve been ignoring in favour of hauling boxes and painting walls. I hit _ send, _ set my phone aside and slide down, rolling over to face John.

We wordlessly move forward, arms pulling each other close—his cheek against my sternum, head tucked beneath my chin. I let myself breathe him in, closing my eyes and letting my other senses take over. The smell of him, the feel of him—his warmth and the heady combination of emotion and physical sensation that floods through me whenever I have him in my arms. I sigh as his fingernails lightly scrape up and down my spine through the thin cotton of my t-shirt. And as I drift slowly into sleep, I muse—dazedly, through a fog of sleepy contentment—_ I didn’t know that I could feel this way. _


	5. Five

“John,” We’re sitting at the kitchen table, each perusing a section of this morning’s paper. Rosie’s back at school during the day now—the summer holidays have ended at last. We’ve had one case after another in the past two weeks since they moved back to Baker Street—a series of (still unsolved) murders that seem to be linked—and I believe Rosie was beginning to wear Mrs. Hudson out.

“Mm?” He sips his coffee and lowers the paper to look at me. I’ve been pondering what to say for nearly a week. Attempting to formulate a question that will encompass all that I want to convey. Really, I just want to touch him more thoroughly than I am currently allowed. But I can hardly say that. 

“It’s been two weeks,” I begin, brow furrowing, already unsure how to continue. His eyebrows creep upward as he watches me struggle to find the words. “Do you—what do you think—“ I stop. Sigh. Let’s try this again. “If you’re amenable,” I blurt out. “I’d like to move forward with our relationship, a bit,” Does that make sense? I sound like an idiot. I just want my hands on his skin. Want to lose the barriers of clothing that we’ve diligently kept between us these past weeks together. I have been looking for any sign from him that he may be interested in moving forward to something more, but he’s seemed perfectly content to continue our current virtuous routine. He stares at me.

“What are you suggesting?” A lopsided grin begins to form on his face now, and I feel a bit flustered. Unsure how to ask for what I want.

“I—“ I cut myself off when he stands, takes a step toward me. I look up at him with wide eyes as he wraps his fingers around my wrist and pulls me gently to a standing position.

“Show me what you have in mind,” His hands on my hips, now. My heart slams against my ribcage, threatening to vacate my chest entirely. My arms hang uselessly at my sides. I've been afraid to show him what I have in mind, for fear of pushing him away. The past fifteen days have been—without question—the best of my life. John and I are more in sync than we’ve ever been—likely because we’re together nearly constantly now. We’ve been rather focused on the work as of late, running around London together and then coming home and huddling on the couch, leaning on one another and solemnly rehashing the case. Or falling into bed, exhausted and still fully clothed, drifting into sleep side by side. We’re a team again. We’ve found our balance once more. And now that I’ve grown comfortable with this new tactile facet of our relationship, I want more.

“John—are you—do you—“

_ “Yes,” _ He interrupts. “Whatever it is, Sherlock, the answer is yes,” Really? It’s that simple? I look at him for a long moment and then hesitantly bring my arms up, slip my fingers under the hem of his burgundy plaid shirt, meeting the warm skin of his waist. I pause. “Go on, then,” He says, a small smile still firmly in place. So I do. I slide my palms up his sides, across his ribcage, back down his taut abdomen. _ Finally, _ I think. Barriers breached. He tentatively begins to tug my shirt from where it’s tucked into my trousers. “All right?” He asks, searching my face for permission. I nod. Once he’s pulled my shirt from its confines, he begins to slowly unfasten buttons, watching me for signs of protest. I have none. The fabric hanging loosely from my shoulders now, his eyes roam over this new expanse of flesh he suddenly has access to. Meeting my eyes again, he carefully runs his palms across my pectorals, down my sides. I shiver violently, my skin buzzing beneath his fingertips. He registers this and snakes his arms around my waist, pulls our bodies close. I let my forehead drop to his shoulder, slide my hands up his back, feeling for the scar that he’s hidden from me for all these years. I map it with the pads of my fingers, think of how we’d never have found each other at all if he hadn’t been given this scar. A series of random events led him to the lab that day. Both of us existing in a grey, miserable haze until we unexpectedly found one another and learned that life could have colour. 

An overwhelming wave of emotion washing through me, I turn my head on a whim, press my lips to his neck. We haven’t done this yet, either—kissed—it never held any appeal for me until recently. Now I’m regularly compelled to lie my lips on various regions of his flesh. But I haven’t. Until now. I let my tongue dance lightly across his skin, tasting salt, smelling his own musky scent where my nose rests under his jaw. He sighs, tightens his grip on my body.

We remain this way for long minutes, wrapped up in each other, breathing together—my hand trailing up and down his spine. John is the first to pull back, arms still circling my waist, blue eyes staring up at me. They reflect what I’m feeling—everything that I don’t have the words to describe. I watch as he brings his hands up to cup my jaw, thumbs brushing gently across cheekbones. He leans forward and places a soft kiss on my pulse point—sending a heavy drop of heat skittering down my spine—letting his lips linger for a beat.

“Sherlock,” He says quietly, against my skin. “You don’t have to hesitate, with me. You don’t even have to ask,” He pulls back again, looks up at me. “If there’s something you want, you can have it. I trust you,” He slides his hands up, brushing curls from my forehead. “I’m open to anything,” He reiterates. He has told me this before, but he had seemed content to carry on as we were—“I’m following your lead, you know. Whatever you decide, I’m already so happy I hardly know what to do with myself,” He smiles up at me. Oh. Following my lead. I wasn’t able to find any signs of him wanting more because he really is all right with anything at all. He won’t push me. Affection coursing wildly through my veins, I return his smile, pull him in again. Press my lips to the top of his head. I had never seen John as open and free of worry as he’s been in the last couple of weeks. It seems that he’s found our union as much of a relief as I have. If only we had found our way here sooner.

My phone vibrates on the table, forcing me to acknowledge once more that there’s a world outside of the circle of John’s arms. I groan into his silver hair. He lets out a huff of laughter against my neck, tightens his grip briefly, then backs away. Duty calls.

It’s Lestrade. Another murder. It seems that we indeed have an active serial killer on our hands. I can’t help the burst of excitement in my chest at this news—it’s been ages since we’ve had a real challenge. John is reading over my shoulder, hand resting warmly on the small of my back. We share a knowing glance as my fingers fly deftly over buttons, refastening my fluttering shirt and tucking it hurriedly back into my trousers. He follows me to the entryway, pulling on our jackets in tandem, locking eyes and communicating silently about what’s ahead, what we’re about to walk into. He reaches up, runs his palm over my cheek, down the side of my neck, then drops it back down to fling open the door. Together, we descend—seventeen steps—and rush out the front door and into the unknown.


	6. Six

The past week has been hell on the both of us. We spent six days chasing down the wrong man, and two more lives were lost because I was too much of an idiot to see that the killer was actually our suspect’s daughter. Granted, the man I’d suspected turned out to be a sociopathic paedophile and is now locked securely in a prison cell. He’d put his daughter through a living nightmare, and the result was a series of brutal murders. All Caucasian men in their sixties. None of them guilty of any punishable crime. Still, a clear pattern. They all looked startlingly like her father.

As we slowly lumber up the steps to 221B, I am becoming rapidly aware of the sleep deprivation I’d insisted upon while the case was on. I’ve managed about twelve hours in the past week, and only because John dragged me to bed each time I began to lose the ability to keep my eyes open and hold my head upright. He’s had a difficult time emotionally with this case—is exhausted in his own way. 

We trudge through the door, and he lets out a long sigh of relief. We’ve been stuck at the Yard for hours, wrapping things up, and after everything this week has thrown our way, it’s good to be home. There hasn’t been much time at all to spare for each other, so once we’ve shrugged off our jackets, I take his hand and lead him to the bedroom.

I strip down to my pants, John watching me for a moment and then doing the same. Flip the covers back and crawl into bed, side by side. I slide an arm around his waist, hand flat against his stomach—tug him toward me until he’s spooned against my chest. Hook my chin over his shoulder and press my lips to his cheek. He sighs.

John has been an incredible force throughout this case, despite the emotional toll that it has cost him. It was he who first realized that we had the wrong man. Saw patterns that my sentimentally naïve mind had missed. He and I think so differently—sometimes I forget just _ how _ different we are—but it only makes us a more dynamic team.

I slide my hand up to his chest, palm resting comfortably against warm skin. Let my head drop back to the pillow—exhaustion creeping in once more. Nose buried in his silver hair, I tumble—like a boulder off of a cliff—into sleep.

✦

I wake to the sensation of fingernails scratching lightly over my back—up and down. Lips against my forehead, John’s breath on my skin. “Hey,” He whispers. I haven’t opened my eyes, but I stretch a bit, settle back in beneath the weight of his arm. “We have to go meet Molly and Greg soon,” Rosie has been staying with them again. She’d spent the night since we’d been out quite late, and Molly had suggested we meet them for brunch this morning to retrieve her and catch up. I groan. “Shower?” He asks. At this, my eyes flutter open. He’s staring back at me, a slight grin on his face. We haven’t showered together, but that is clearly what he’s suggesting. Haven’t even seen each other’s bodies in their entirety, yet. John flings off the duvet, rolls out of bed and heads to the loo. I follow. Obviously.

I stand awkwardly against the door while John turns on the shower. When he turns to face me, I can feel my face begin to heat, a blush no doubt creeping onto my cheeks. He smirks, rolls his eyes, and unabashedly removes his pants. He looks lovely, as ever. He’s stayed quite fit through the years, and even entirely exposed he’s incredibly attractive. And rather aroused.

“Don’t worry about that,” He laughs, likely clocking my slightly raised eyebrows. “To be expected. Obviously,” I wasn’t worried, actually. Intrigued, I think, is the word. I’m no stranger to arousal, but it hasn’t been what I’d call a frequent occurrence in my life. More frequent in the years I’ve known John, however. And the sight of him like this is having quite an effect. I slowly step out of my pants, eyes locked on his. He breaks our gaze to scan my body. I watch as he registers my own erection, a small smile appearing on his face. “Oh,” He says.

We step into the steaming spray together, hands immediately roaming over heated skin. His fingers cup my neck, glide up through my wet curls. I run my palms down his arms, snake them around to his lower back. In a moment of uncharacteristic daring—fuelled by unprecedented lust—I slide them down, down and roughly squeeze his arse, pulling him abruptly toward me. When our erections brush, a fog of arousal consumes me in a way that I wouldn’t have guessed possible. John moans, whispers a string of profanities under his breath. I’m not sure where to go from here. I want to touch him, I think. Are we going to do this, then? I suppose that’s up to me. My heart is racing, bursting, boiling over with emotion and unfamiliar desire. Emboldened by the memory of his words from last week _ (you don’t have to hesitate, with me) _ I take a slight step back, reach down and wrap my fingers around his shaft. He gasps at the contact, looks up at me with wide eyes as I begin to firmly stroke.

“Oh my _ God,” _ John breathes, hands coming up to grab at my shoulders for stability. His head drops down, watching my hand on him, pulling him swiftly to a state of bliss. He leans forward, panting heavily against my chest—I can feel that he’s already close to orgasm as my fingers glide rapidly up and down. Seeing him like this is setting my gut on fire, cock throbbing and skin buzzing—something new and exciting blossoming behind my ribcage. When he ejaculates, it’s with a strangled shout, erupting over my fingers and collapsing against my chest. I wrap my arms around his body, kiss the top of his head.

After a long moment, he pulls back, looks up at me. “Can I?” He asks. Oh, God. I nod slowly, feeling suddenly hesitant at the thought of another human being’s hands on me like this. But it’s John, and I trust him. I want this for us—I really do. He grabs a bottle of shampoo off the shelf, applies some to his palm, then reaches down. His grip is light, eyes on my face—watching for signs of protest. Always such concern for my wellbeing. I’d been holding my breath and when he begins a slow, languid stroke, I let it all out in a dramatic sigh. I feel completely raw, exposed to his touch—like each of my nerves has been flicked on, lit up. Heart thundering in my chest, blood swimming with lust and an overwhelming affection, pleasure coiling dangerously within me. Sounds escape my mouth that I hadn’t known I was capable of—my arms have found their way around John’s neck, cheek pressed against his as I pant and moan into his ear. I shout when I come, voice echoing through the tiled walls that surround us. John pulls our bodies flush together, holds on to me as I come down from this new kind of high—his arms keeping me anchored while my head’s in the sky.

✦

“What’s gotten into you two?” Lestrade mumbles, mouth full of eggs benedict. “You haven’t stopped bloody grinning since you showed up.” It’s true. We haven’t. But I’m not about to dignify his inane observations with a response. When we’d told the two of them of our new relationship they’d all but laughed in our faces—Lestrade claiming that he’d thought we’d been together for years. Molly was very happy for us, but not remotely surprised.

“Anything interesting at the morgue lately?” John asks Molly, ignoring Lestrade entirely. God, I love him. Should I tell him that? No. It’s really not the time. And anyway, he already knows. I make a face at Rosie, who’s been watching me push my french toast around the plate. She giggles—brushes back a few stray blonde curls—and takes a miniscule bite of bacon.

“A murder-suicide last week,” Molly responds, sounding bored. “A well-known game show host who dropped dead while filming two nights ago. Only a heart attack. Nothing that would interest the two of you,” She sighs. Molly isn’t quite so committed to her work, these days. Since she and Lestrade got together, she’s settled down quite a bit—spending more time at home, caring for their various pets (and often for Rosie as well). I can tell that she wants children of her own. Seems to be an ongoing point of contention between the two of them. Lestrade doesn’t have much choice but to spend most of his time at the Yard—and as a man of duty, I imagine he doesn’t want to have children that he isn’t able to be present for. I can sense the guilt that plagues John each time we leave Rosie behind. I know how it affects him. I believe that he justifies the amount of time spent away from her by reminding himself that we’re doing good in the world. I certainly don’t judge him for it. Rosie is very loved. But I do worry sometimes that my presence is taking away from their time together.

When we leave the restaurant, Rosie hugs Molly and Lestrade goodbye, then grabs my hand as they walk away. I glance down and meet her trusting blue eyes—John’s in miniature—and feel my heart swell with gratitude for this family that I’ve somehow found myself a part of. We share a long look, her eyes holding a wisdom beyond her five years of life. We have these moments every now and then. Tiny snippets of connection—as if she knows that I doubt my place in their lives from time to time, and is seeking to reassure me. When my eyes shift back up, John is watching us, an odd look on his face—as if he’s weighing his options. Without warning, he steps forward, brings his palms up to my face, and kisses me soundly. I feel my arm come up automatically, five fingers grasping the fabric of his jacket—the others still wrapped around Rosie’s tiny hand. I close my eyes, tilt my head slightly. Completely out of my depth, but entirely open to this experience. John pulls back, presses his lips to my cheek, then gently brings our mouths together once more. I open my eyes when he takes a step back—my lips slightly parted, mind reeling, senses exploding.

“I love you,” He says, quietly, blue eyes boring into mine. I can’t find it in me to formulate a response, so I grab his hand. We haven’t been at all demonstrative outside of the flat in our weeks together. I’d assumed he wasn’t open to public displays of affection. Wrong again. Must stop making assumptions, when it comes to John. “And I love _ you,” _ He says, turning to Rosie, who looks a bit stunned but is nevertheless beaming up at him.

  
As we walk down the pavement toward the corner to hail a cab, I feel as though I’ve been caught in a tidal wave and carried out to sea—anchored only by the two people on either side of me. I cannot believe that I have this, now—a true family. Two humans who openly love me in return. _ I never knew that I could be this free. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last line is a lyric from the song that inspired this soft story.
> 
> Updates will be sporadic—been pretty busy with real life. I'll shoot for every other day, but no guarantees.
> 
> As always, comments are so appreciated. Thanks to everyone who's been reading along.


	7. Seven

“Why did it take us so long to get here?” John asks quietly, fingers carding gently through my hair, the full weight of his body pinning me down. “I have so many regrets, Sherlock,” Our faces are close, and I can see the lines that have formed on his face over the years. They represent the regret that he speaks of, the frequent worry, the immense grief that he’s known. I sigh.

“We’re past all of that,” I don’t care to dwell on it. This is a subject that keeps coming up —as if neither of us are capable of just accepting contentment.  We keep searching for a reason, and admittedly we  _ are _ both idiots for not seeing what we could be —the sort of love that we were capable of— sooner. But we need to let it go. “Questioning it now is useless, John,” And anyway, look at us. We’ve just shared yet another memorable orgasm — John’s body writhing and thrusting against mine as we pushed each other gradually over the edge. My heart is nearly bursting out of my chest on a regular basis, these days. I want to focus on the good, for once in my life. I hook my ankles around his calves, wrap my arms around his body where he lies above me as his face drops into the crook of my neck. I turn my head, mouth pressed to his ear —he lets out a huff of laughter and tries to squirm away when my tongue sneaks in and endeavors to explore his auditory canal. Quite bitter. I make note that John’s earwax tastes nearly the same as my own. I wonder if this is true of all human beings—should make it a point to have Molly collect samples from corpses in the near future. It’s been awhile since I’ve made time for a proper experiment. Been a bit distracted with an entirely different sort of experimentation.

John has stopped trying to vacate the circle of my arms, has relaxed against me once more. He lifts his head to bring our mouths together. Kisses me softly, almost reverently. Eight days have passed since he gave me my first, outside that diner on a sunny morning. And for eight days I’ve been the recipient of many more. John is quite adept at the act—I try not to think about the fact that he’s had a lot of practice throughout his life. But it’s easy enough to forget that there were others—his focus is solely on me, now—and he excels at communicating through touch. I can feel his love through the pads of his fingers and the curve of his lips. I can only hope that I’m succeeding at doing the same—I have no sufficient words for what I feel.

I slide my hands up his back, his neck, his silvery hair—to hold his face lightly between them. Gliding my thumbs across his cheeks, I do my best to pour all of the overwhelming affection that I feel for him into the kiss. He moans softly into my mouth, and I caress his bottom lip gently between my own. It didn’t take long for this to feel like second nature. It was as if we simply fit together from the start.

We’ve had quite a lot of sex in the eight days since the dam broke. Now that John knows full well that I want it, he’s less careful with me. Still more careful than he needs to be, but we’re growing more familiar with one another every day. We’ve only explored with our hands and blissful friction, but it’s been incredibly satisfying. And awfully distracting—we’ve been crawling on top of each other at least twice a day.

The kiss has grown wild, fierce, and I feel myself hardening again beneath John’s subtle grind. His face still clutched in my hands, I lightly bite his lip, lifting my hips to thrust upward in response to his movements. He groans, almost a growl, and quickens his pace. Abandoning the kiss, he wraps his arms around my neck, buries his face against mine as he ruts furiously against me. I gasp for breath, panting and clutching at his arse, our erections slotted side by side as we move desperately together.

John comes first, crying out against my jaw, and I follow soon after—erupting between us with a gasp and a shout—breathily calling his name. Once we’ve returned to Earth, he rolls off of me—grabbing a T-shirt and wiping the evidence of  _ both _ of the orgasms we’ve managed in the past hour from our sweaty bodies. We lie face to face, watching one another. I do this often—record every response, every twitch of his body in every circumstance we find ourselves in. I’m not sure why John so frequently studies me in return. Perhaps he’s created a mind palace of his own? No. Not likely. He’s not much for collecting and storing data.

Eventually we roll out of bed and take a quick shower. It’s nearly ten—we had dropped Rosie off at school this morning and come straight back to bed, a pattern we’ve adopted this past week. I start a pot of coffee, yawning dramatically and thinking of how little actual sleep we’ve been getting lately. A familiar scenario for me, but for an entirely different reason, these days.

As I head over to join John in our chairs, two coffees in hand, I hear a familiar tread on the stairs. John glances up, a pained expression on his face. I roll my eyes. I’d been wondering when he’d show up. Mycroft strides in without knocking, leaning his umbrella against the wall and hanging his jacket neatly on a hook. He pauses, then, taking in the sight of us in our dressing gowns—I’m still frozen in place holding both coffees. I gather my wits and hand John his mug, taking a seat in my chair. “Mycroft,” I say, flicking open this morning’s paper and pretending to read.

“Sherlock,” He says, only a hint of disdain in his usually hateful tone. “John,” He nods at John, who has risen to fetch him a coffee. “I trust you’re both well?”

“Never better,” John chimes from the kitchen. I smirk at my brother. Curious whether he’ll acknowledge the clear shift in our relationship.

“Happy to hear it,” He says distractedly, looking me up and down. “Haven’t been sleeping much, I see. I wonder what on Earth has been keeping you up?”

“You know that I’m not much for sleep,” I say, my tone bored as I half-heartedly scan an advice column. Not about to help him bring up what he really wants to discuss. John comes in, hands Mycroft a coffee, nods at his own chair and then perches on the arm of mine. Mycroft sits.

_ “I’ve _ been keeping him up, as you very well know. Isn’t that why you’re here?” I can’t help the smile that creeps onto my face as Mycroft shifts uncomfortably. John slides his arm around my shoulders, brings his hand up to brush through my curls.

“Yes, well,” Mycroft straightens up, smooths nonexistent wrinkles from his pristinely pressed shirt. “I suppose I’d wanted to confirm my suspicions,” I can  _ feel _ John roll his eyes from where he’s leaned against my side.

“Well, now you know. Was there anything else?” Mycroft stares at him for a long moment, looking a bit taken aback by John’s defensive tone.

“Yes, actually. I’d like to invite the three of you for dinner. This Saturday at six. Our parents will be in London for the weekend, and I’ve agreed to host them,” His tone is resigned. He had no choice the matter—he never does. The invitation is a bit shocking, however. I haven’t been to Mycroft’s house in years. Especially odd that he would invite John and Rosie. I realize that we’re both staring at him blankly when he sighs, sits forward slightly in his chair. “You should tell them, Sherlock. They’ll be thrilled,” I know that they will. I haven’t told them yet for that very reason. Mummy can be a bit much. Mycroft stands. “I, too, am happy for the both of you. It was only a matter of time,” He studies us—leaning on each other, comfortably existing in one another’s space—and a barely detectable smile graces his lips for a fleeting moment. He then abruptly turns toward the door, gathering his things. “Saturday,” He says sharply, and he’s gone.


	8. Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Raise your hand if you thought this story was dead and gone. 
> 
> Wrong! It's back. I've just been busy. Updates will be sparse and unpredictable. ):
> 
> Thanks to all who followed/are still reading along!

I rise slowly to the sound of an obnoxious children’s song playing on a loop on the telly to my right, and a subtle weight on top of me. Eyes still shut, I lift my arm from where it lies at my side and find a mop of soft curls. Crack an eye open to see Rosie sprawled across my chest and John at my side, his face pressed into my shoulder and an arm flung over the both of us. They’re fast asleep, breathing quietly, nearly in tandem.

The sun is set. We’d eaten takeaway in the living room and then all huddled on the couch to watch one of Rosie’s favourite animated films. At some point we clearly succommed to boredom, as the theme song now plays over and over again—the menu screen casting a blue light across the darkening flat. I brush a hand lightly over Rosie’s hair, turn my head to press lips softly against John’s forehead. This sort of calm is entirely new to me. I’ve never been remotely able to exist in the present—mind always reeling, thinking twelve steps ahead—but now it seems almost possible. Rosie shifts a bit, inhales deeply—her tiny hand coming up to grasp the fabric of my shirt. John reacts to this small movement by tightening his grip on the both of us, pulling us in. I let myself turn inward a bit, Rosie sliding down between us. I watch as John gradually returns to the land of the living—eyelids eventually flickering open, and a smile spreading across his face as he takes in his surroundings.

“Hi,” He whispers. I return his smile. We watch one another for what feels like ages, silently sharing this moment of peace. The spell is broken when Rosie rolls over, smacking John in the face with her tiny fist. “All right,” He laughs quietly. “Bed, I think. Anyway, this song is driving me up the bloody wall.”

✦

“What are we meant to be wearing to this thing?” It’s early Saturday evening, and John has flung open the doors of the wardrobe, shoving jumpers aside and flicking through his collection of button-downs. I sit perched on our bed, Rosie giggling at my side in her new aubergine dress, as we watch him frustratedly dismiss every shirt that he owns. We share a pointed look and she flops back on the bed, letting out an impatient sigh.

“Whatever you like. We’ve been over this,” I unhurriedly fasten my cufflinks —last year’s Christmas gift from my parents that I have never worn and will never wear again—and glance up at him. He’s stopped rifling through his clothing and is watching me, looking defeated.

“Look at you, you bloody gorgeous wanker. I own nothing that can compete with whatever that—” He gestures, clearly annoyed, in my general direction, “—is. Your parents will be horrified that you’ve chosen to be with the likes of me.”

At this, I roll my eyes. John isn’t generally plagued with any real self-doubt. What is this, then? “My parents have known and adored you for years, John. We’re going to dinner at Mycroft’s, not the bloody BAFTAs. What is the problem?”

“You know what a BAFTA is?” His expression is skeptical, and rightfully so. I do not, in fact, know what a BAFTA is—but I’m sure that I’ve heard it referred to as an occasion for elegant dress. I evade the question.

“What is the problem?” I ask again. He stares back at me for a long moment, then sighs, shoulders dropping. Walks over and brushes an errant curl back from my forehead. I pull him into my lap, startling him into a huff of laughter. Rosie sits up, giggling as I wrap my arms tight around John’s waist and grin in her direction.

“Nervous. Obviously,” Again, he sighs. Oh. “Your entire family is so—impressive. Ridiculously so. Intelligent. Accomplished. Well-dressed. It’s a bit intimidating.”

“John, we’ve spent every Christmas with them for the past six years. They insist on seeing you every time they’re in London, and they can’t get enough of Rosie. You’re already family, you need not be concerned,” They like him more than they like Mycroft and I combined. He and Rosie are the only ones who are ever genuinely happy to see them when they visit the city.

“This is different. You know it is,” Is it? I suppose it is odd to be invited to Mycroft’s home. The only time I’ve been there in the last decade is when John and I terrorized him into admitting to the existence of Eurus. John studies my face, notes my furrowed brow, sighs. “It is different. Surely you can see that?” I can see. Clearer than he can.

“John, in their eyes we’ve been together for years. My family had never known me to care for anyone—or be accepted by anyone so completely—before you. They’ve known for a long time what you are to me, and I assure you that they will be thrilled by the news,” Unwilling to hear another word of self-deprecation or doubt, I place both hands on his cheeks, kiss him swiftly on the mouth, then stand, dislodging him from where he sat perched on my lap. I take Rosie by the hand and head for the hall, pausing briefly in the doorway. “The burgundy shirt with the charcoal suit, I think,” A smirk. He knows full well that he looks incredible in that damned suit.

✦

We arrive at Mycroft’s estate at six o’clock sharp. We’re greeted at the door by a member of his staff and immediately ushered into the large, ornate sitting room. The house is essentially a palace, and I find myself rolling my eyes repeatedly as they land on various objects of decor. A ridiculous choice of property for a single man, but my brother never could resist a bit of grandeur.

Mummy shrieks when she sees us, rushing over to envelop Rosie in an enthusiastic embrace. When she stands, she kisses me on both cheeks. “You look well, Sherlock. Better than the last time I saw you. You’ve put on some weight, too—it suits you,” Unsure what to say to this, I remain silent and glance over at John, who’s grinning from ear to ear, eyebrows raised. My mother follows my gaze and beams at him. “Oh, John,” She steps forward, kissing his cheek and wrapping him up in her arms. “It’s lovely to see you. How have you been? Anything new? What have you been up to since we last saw you?” John looks in my direction just as my father and Mycroft stride in, greeting us each in turn and effectively ending my mother’s attempt at interrogation.

We now sit on a stuffy beige settee, keeping a careful bit of distance between us. We’ve decided to tell my parents of our new relationship status at the first opportunity—no sense in putting it off any longer—and this seems to be it. Rosie is sitting on my mother's lap, babbling away about a puzzle she put together this morning. My father and Mycroft are perched stiffly in armchairs, both fidgeting uncomfortably, drinks in hand. John and I lock eyes—a silent agreement. I clear my throat.

“We—ah—have something to say,” I blurt out to the quiet room, everyone’s attention immediately pivoting to me. I hadn’t considered how uncomfortable this would be—my heart has begun to race—the words won’t come. Perhaps John was right to be nervous after all. I look back over at him, hoping to find some sort of guidance for how this should go. He watches me for a moment and then smiles. He takes my hand.

Mummy gasps quietly. My father says nothing, but gives us a small, knowing smile.

“We’ve decided—we’ve realized—“ John stammers out. He cuts himself off. Sighs, slides closer. Squeezes my hand tightly. “We’ve figured things out. We’re together, now.”

✦

Dinner is a tedious affair. By the time we’ve answered all of my mother’s many questions, tolerated her tears and assured her that this is, in fact, happening, we’re already on dessert. Once she’s moved on to asking Mycroft why he hasn’t found someone yet, John and I have a moment to ourselves.

“You were right,” He says quietly. “There was no need to worry at all,” I run my palm across his back, pull him in a bit. He leans easily against my side. It is a relief to have told my family. It’s been real to us for awhile now, but letting them know what we’ve found in each other has made it feel more solidified. More official, I suppose. Mycroft has been rather subdued throughout dinner—has spent most of it chatting quietly with our father—but has flashed me a few smug smiles. He really does seem to be glad for John and myself. Despite his disdain for any human connection whatsoever, he has always looked out for me in his own overbearing way.

I wonder now if John ever told Harry about us. When he’d asked if he could refer to me as his partner—if we could tell the people in our lives—I’d assumed he’d meant her. But it hasn’t come up. Perhaps she disapproves and he’s spared me the annoyance of hearing it. I am not her favourite person, after all. I’ll ask him about it another time.

We inch our way out shortly after dessert. Rosie is growing tired and restless, and I’m more than ready to be back at Baker Street. We promise to take a weekend trip to Wales to visit my parents at some point this Autumn, and with hugs and handshakes we slip out the front door.

Rosie is fast asleep by the time the cab pulls up outside of 221B. We tuck her in upstairs and head straight for our own bed. We wordlessly strip down to nothing and crawl in, meeting in the middle as we now tend to do. I pull John close and we unravel one another with persistent fingers, mouths locked and breaths mingled. Strong arms wrapped around me, I press my lips to his throat and try to think of a time when we didn’t have this connection. It now seems absurd that just a few short weeks ago we were still adamantly keeping our distance—ignoring the pull that we both felt—

“Sherlock,” John whispers against my brow. “Will we always have this?” Clearly we’ve been riding the same wave of thought. I’m not sure if I have a response—we haven’t talked about  _ always. _ Haven’t mentioned  _ forever. _ I’d thought it was obvious. I, for one, will never want anyone else. I pull back a bit, look up to meet his eyes. He looks uncertain. Hesitant. “Are we in this for keeps?” What sort of question is that?

“I am,” I rumble, my voice steady and sure, despite the slight unease that I suddenly feel. “Obviously, John. I am,” He stares back at me. Have I gotten this wrong? It had never occurred to me that we may need to say these things aloud. “Why are you asking me this now?” A pause. A sigh.

“I was thinking—I was getting ahead of myself, really—but I just—” He pulls me back in, lips against my forehead once more. “I wanted to be sure. I will always want this. Just so you know,” He presses a kiss to my temple. “I love you,” He says.


End file.
